


As The Light Wanes

by Crazyhotsoup



Series: Issac & Eliza [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Whump, Emotional Hurt, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, References to Depression, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:01:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25440580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazyhotsoup/pseuds/Crazyhotsoup
Summary: A study in grief. Arthur deals with the death of his family.
Series: Issac & Eliza [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1842367
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	As The Light Wanes

**Author's Note:**

> You should probably read the first fic before this one :)
> 
> I played with the timeline a bit

Dutch had taken his guns. He had taken his knives, he had taken anything that could've hurt him, purposeful or not. He even went as far as to remove the small amount of Oleander Sage he carried for poisoning his knife blade. He banned him from taking on guard duty. Arthur didn't complain, he just laid inside of his tent. 

After Eliza had found him and spoken of her pregnancy, he had promptly moved her into his tent. Miss Grimshaw had been quick to help buy a new tent, one with walls, that was big enough to house the pair and their coming baby. Arthur had been elated at the promise of a child. He had scooped Eliza up in his arms and swung her around in a circle, spilling his cup of coffee in a wide arc. She laughed and he whooped loudly. The whole camp had heard within the hour, everyone stopping to congratulate him. Dutch shared a drink with him and Hosea. John had clapped him on the shoulder and he, still high from the glee, pulled the younger man into a bone-crushing hug. 

Arthur curled up on his cot. The covers still smelled of her.

She had worn an expensive perfume he bought for her as a gift. The perfume had come from a fancy French boutique in some long-forgotten city. It smelled of geranium, cedar and cinnamon. Arthur had been wooed by the salesman and bought the gift for a large sum of money. When he presented her with the scented oil, she threw her arms around him. It had been a wedding gift, despite the fact they had never had an actual ceremony. Eliza had been happy with the rings and taking his last name, never once complaining about the lack of officiality. She had treasured the decorative jar and sparingly applied the scented oil each day.

Miss Grimshaw hadn't tried to take the bedclothes from him. She must've read the pain on his face like it was written there. Instead, she settled for forcing stew down his throat each day. Arthur only ate because she threatened his well being if he didn't. It had become a daily routine in the passing weeks since Colter. After two days, she had packed his entire room and pushed him into the wagon. Dutch had left him in his room during the train heist, not daring to disturb him. That had been the same day he took everything of danger from Arthur. 

Each day he would wake, Miss Grimshaw would shave his face with a straight razor and then he would search for Uncle's 'secret' stash. The bottles of booze were easy enough to find. By lunchtime, Miss Grimshaw would appear, clear his tent of empty bottles and force some stew down his gullet. She was the only thing keeping him going. Once she had left he would curl up in his cot and cry. 

The tears came hot and fast, wetting the hair by his temples. Once he really got going, they were nearly impossible to stop. He would cry until his eyes dried up and the tears wouldn't come anymore. Then he would emerge from his tent, blotchy faced and still sniffling. He would drink a cup of water and then go to sit by the cliff. John and Charles would watch him. He knew they tried to be covert about it, but he was too attuned to his surroundings. Every time he watched the sunsets, he thought of them. 

He saw them in everything. He saw them in the sunset. He heard her in the morning song of the birds, and the rustling of the wind in the leaves. He saw him in the big doe eyes of the deer that were daring enough to rustle through the underbrush just outside of camp. When he managed to slip away, he would watch changing sky and think of how she would've loved it. She always loved the sky right before a thunderstorm. She had told just as much one day in Blackwater. The sky had rapidly turned from sunny to a hazy grey, and she had marveled at the sight. 

No one stopped him when he threw a bucket across the camp. Eyes diverted as he refused to go out for Strauss.

"You've pitied yourself long enough, son. Go out and earn something for this camp." Dutch had found him sitting by the edge of camp, watching Jack with misty eyes. 

"How am I supposed to do that when you don't even trust me with a straight razor?" He set his jaw and pointedly met the older man's gaze. Dutch balked for a second before turning away. Arthur directed his gaze back to little Jack. He felt tears well in his eyes and trail down his cheeks. The realization that he would never get to see Isaac grow up hit him like a train. He sobbed, head in hands, while Jack continued to play. He looked up when the boy poked his shoulder with the stick he had been digging with moments before. 

"Are you alright, Uncle Arthur?" The well-meaning question had sent him into hysterics. He pulled the boy into a hug. Jack's cheek was flush was his, his hand splayed against his hair. The boy wrapped his arms around his neck, just how he had countless times before, and let him sob. Abigail glanced at him but didn't do anything to intervene. When he had asked where baby Isaac had gone, Abigail pulled him aside and quietly explained. He let go of Jack and apologized to the boy. Jack just smiled and stated that he 'didn't mind cause you give great hugs'. 

The days stretched into one. The only distinction between them were the stretches of night. Sleep was few and far between. His clothing only washed when Miss Grimshaw stole into his tent and snuck it away. Arthur avoided reflective surfaces like the plague. He knew his eyes were sunken and sporting deep purple circles. His hair was greasy and stringy. John tried to get him to go out into town and Charles tried to sneak him hunting. 

He was stuck, his gears didn't whir and his cogs didn't turn. Everything stopped mattering. It was still frozen in the snow up that mountain, mixed with her brains and blood and buried with them. He thought of his son the day he was born. The boy had come out looking like a doll. His lips had been a beautiful pink and he had a full head of dark hair. Arthur had marveled at the perfect boy and held him close. He hadn't let himself be pushed from the tent during the birth. He stayed and worried over his wife through the whole ordeal. He hadn't shied away when she fed him for the first time. She had smiled at him as the small life lay on her bosom and slept for a seemingly impossible stretch of time. 

Only in his dreams did he see her. She was beautiful with her long black hair and pretty pale skin. He would see her and imagine holding her. Eliza, immortalized in his memories. Eliza, with her heart-shaped face and delicate dresses. Arthur would see her again, he would touch her and kiss her and feel her. They would tangle in the grass and he would remember her soft edges. 

After he dreamed of her, he would wake and sketch her again. He would try to commit her memory to the pages. They were messy and didn't look like her anymore. He was thankful for the drawings he made of her and their son. Isaac and Eliza, immortalized on paper. He had one photograph of all three of them together. He hid it behind the portrait of his mother. He could remember her, he could draw them, but he could not look at the sepia-toned photograph. 

The morning that Dutch returned his gunbelt and other belongings, he held his revolver in his hands. He stared long and hard at the gun, just as he had the night after she...he shook the thought from his head and flipped open the chamber. Five bullets were in their places, the sixth buried in the snow, somewhere near Colter. He flipped the chamber closed and laid the gun on the cot next to him. 

The letter arrived and he prepared himself to officially leave camp for the first time since Blackwater. Mary wrote him, begging for him to come see her. He had almost burned it when he recognized the hand. Susan watched him as he mounted his horse, gunbelt fastened around his waist. 

She came running out of the house in a flurry of skirts. 

"I heard you and your friends was around." She looked at him with a sadness in her face. 

"Where's what's his name?" He had cast away the memories of her long ago. Once Eliza loved him, she no longer mattered. 

"Died." He felt a pang of sadness at the words.

"I'm," He cleared his throat and turned his gaze towards the gable roof. "I'm sorry to hear that." 

"Yeah, me too." He met her gaze briefly. Guilt bubbled inside of him. He shouldn't have come. "Happened while ago, Pneumonia."

"Bad business." His voice cracked and he swallowed painfully. 

"Sure." She cleared her throat and gazed towards his hands where he was wringing them. The gold band glinted in the late afternoon sunlight and she sucked in a breath. 

"You're married?" It wasn't a question, nor a statement. Tears, he had promised he was through with, welled in his eyes and he turned away to wipe at them. He stepped off of the porch and she followed. "Arthur, you should've told me." 

"It ain't like that." She stepped in front of him and grabbed his hands. 

"It ain't like what?" He pulled away and kept walking down the hill. Tears were pouring down his face in a steady stream. "Tell me, Arthur. Is she wonderful? Can I meet her?"

"No." His voice cracked again and he cleared his throat. 

"No, what? No, she isn't wonderful? Or, no, I can't meet her?" He shook his head and took a steadying breath. She stopped in front of him and he tilted his head backward. The bright blue sky was taunting above him. 

"She's-" His voice cracked and gave out. He kept his eyes trained on the sky and sucked in a shaky breath. 

"She's gone?" Mary, ever perceptive. He bit harshly into the inside of his bottom lip. "How long?" 

"About two weeks. My, my son too." Mary made a weak noise at that. He lowered his head and looked straight into her eyes. She looked on the edge of crying herself. 

"My lord, Arthur, you shouldn't be up and about." He sucked on his cheek and she placed a hand on his arm. "Go." 

He couldn't remember the ride back to camp if you paid him to. 

His anger boiled over at a moment's notice. He snapped at Pearson and glowered from the edges of the camp. Folks avoided him when he was like that. He would apologize later, but his scathing remarks still hurt.

"I can't go. My face will be all over West Elizabeth." Arthur clenched his jaw and stared defiantly at Dutch. 

"Maybe you should've thought about that before you painted that riverboat with that girl's brains." Dutch gaped at him before snapping his mouth shut. 

"You don't know what you're talking about." Arthur felt his nose and lip scrunch into a sneer, face shaking as the muscles stayed taught. 

"I sure as hell didn't see it, but that don't mean I haven't heard just about every account, personal or reported." He caught John's shocked gaze from behind the man. 

"Arthur, go get him." He spit angrily and glared at the man. Dutch's eye twitched.

"You can't see the shit that's happening cause you've got your head buried in it. Since you brought that leech home, he's been causing trouble and worming his way into your good graces. Sometime's I wonder if he's even human. You must've seen it, Dutch. The way you defer to his opinion and ignore Hosea's or mine? Wasn't he the one that caused that mess in Blackwater? Wasn't he the one that made us have to run through the mountains?" Dutch's face darkened. 

"This ain't about your dead wife or child, son. This is-" For the first time that Arthur could remember, he punched Dutch. The crack resounded through the camp and the older man swayed. After spitting out a mess of blood, he glared at Arthur. 

"Get out. Leave camp now. Come back in a week." Arthur didn't need telling twice. He blew through camp and mounted his horse. The beast snorted as he spurred it towards the grassy hills of the Heartlands. 

That night he sobbed and screamed like a man possessed.

He drew his revolver and stared at it for a long while. The meticulously cleaned metal glowed in the firelight and he even went as far as to cock it. Dutch wouldn't miss him. Eliza wouldn't, couldn't. John hated him since he got back. Hosea was sick and Susan too occupied with the camp. No one would miss him. 

He opened his mouth and placed the cool metal on his tongue. The sight scraped the roof of his mouth and the metal was a foreign taste. He held it there for a long while. Thoughts rushed through his head and he slowly returned the hammer to its original position. He withdrew the weapon and placed it back in his holster. Dutch had been right to take it. 

Charles found him a week and a half later. The dark-skinned man approached and he didn't even blink an eye. If a thief wanted to shoot him dead during the night, they could. 

"You gave Dutch a nasty shiner." The man lowered himself down across the fire. "He's worried about you, though he'll never admit it, not after you punched him in the middle of camp," Arthur grunted in response and picked at a semi-warmed can of pork and beans. The beans were still chalky. 

"You coming back? Jack's been asking after you." Arthur raised his head and spooned a bite of the food into his mouth. Charles retrieved his own can of something and opened it. He slowly punctured the can and set it near the fire to warm. Arthur chewed on the mixture and considered Charles' question. What was left for him? His things. The young mother and her son. Tilly and Mary-Beth. 

"Alright." Charles stirred at the can and grabbed the can. 

"Good. We miss you." He ignored the comment and finished his can. He tore down his camp and packed it back onto his horse. The beast snorted and he rubbed a hand against its neck. Charles finished his food and walked back to Taima. The pair rode back to camp. 

Arthur couldn't remember the ride back to camp if you paid him to. 

Micah sneered at him as he drank a bottle of whiskey. The alcohol numbed, it made him forget. Susan had taken away the last bottle, half-finished. The new one had come from his trunk. She hadn't seen it. 

"Lookin to pickle yer liver, Cowpoke?" He ignored Micah's jab. The blonde man sat down across from him and sneered. "I asked ya a question." 

"Yeah, well, I didn't ask you to talk to me, but here we are." Micah huffed and stood, walking away from the table. 

"Arthur Morgan, you stop drinking that this minute." He looked at Susan. She was standing next to him, arms crossed, face a hard scowl. He raised the bottle to his lips. She grabbed it from him and lobbed it out of camp. Arthur stared, half daze, half surprised. She harumphed and walked away. 

The days bled into one again. 

He started to see her again. 

It started as a glimpse out of the corner of his eyes, or a shadow inside of his tent. He would turn and she would disappear. He would wake to the feeling of someone laying on his chest, only to find his bed empty.

With a start, he realized the sheets didn't smell of her anymore. He pressed his face into their pillow and felt tears well in his eyes. He dug through the trunk and found the bottle of perfume. He unscrewed the lid and let out a broken sound when he smelled it. It was her, it was Eliza. He screwed the lid back on and buried it under all of their clothes. 

That day he wrote the first letter. 

_I've been thinking about you. I've been thinking about your perfect face and musical laugh. I've been thinking of your awful singing._

_It's been three weeks, or thereabout. I don't know exactly, I ain't been keeping track. I can't keep track, If I do I think this will all end._

_You shouldn't have left me. You're horrible. You're awful but I still love you. I think it every day. I think it every night. I think it every moment. Eliza, you've killed me with yourself._

_You're still plaguing me. I see you in everything. I've been plain seeing you too._

_How's our little boy? He alright?_

_Do you change up there? Has he grown at all? Or is he still that perfect porcelain doll you left behind?_

_I punched Dutch. He was furious. Kicked me out for a week. I stayed gone for a week and a half. He still hasn't apologized for what he said, but I think we're even._

_I miss you with every fiber of being. You still make my heart ache and my head spin. I'm going to be hopelessly in love with you 'till the end of time. You must know that._

_Don't make me do this. Don't make me Eliza._

_I've been broken since that day. I haven't hurt this bad since Mary rejected me and ran off with my ring. You've been the best thing that's ever happened to me, 'till you were the worst._

_I don't blame you for him._

_Goddamn, why'd you have to do it? We could've made it. We could've fixed each other. Was it cause I slept in the kitchen?_

_I still love you, Eliza, I don't know how many times I have to say it to make it real, but I do. I always will._

He stared at the letter and folded it. It was shoved in the bottom of the trunk with her perfume and dresses. 

Everything burned and he curled up on his cot. Miss Grimshaw didn't come that day. She hadn't since Dutch gave him his things again. He rolled over in the cot and cried until the tears stopped. Then he screamed silence.

That night she laid with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Can y'all tell this is a little personal? That this is a little bit of my own thoughts? It's been hectic in my brain for so long. Intrusive thoughts do that to a man.
> 
> If you want more, please please ask. I'd be happy to write more.


End file.
